


The Chamber of Secrets as told by John Watson

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Potterlock - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Harry Potter - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Potterlock, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second entry in my seven-part Potterlock Saga. There's something curious and evil happening at Hogwarts - Muggle-borns are being attacked. Could Sherlock perhaps unveil the truth before harm befalls his own Muggle-born best friend?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson’s spirits were soaring sky high as he and his mother approached the weather-beaten face of the Leaky Cauldron pub. Mrs. Watson put a hand on her son’s shoulder as he pushed open the door to reveal the dingy interior of the building, completely invisible to the other Muggles passing by. Nobody gave them so much as a second look as the door swung shut behind them, but John could sense his mother’s nervousness as they stepped into the pub. A couple of wizards playing a card game on a table nearby glanced at them as they moved forward, casting dubious looks at Mrs. Watson’s Muggle clothes.

“It’s okay, Mum,” John said, smiling as they passed the bar, giving a crooked old woman who John suspected to be a hag a wide berth.

Exiting through the door at the back of the pub, John drew out his wand and tapped the combination on the brick wall there to reveal the entrance to Diagon Alley. Mrs. Watson gave a little gasp – as she’d done this time last year – as the bricks began to shuffle aside to form the tall archway. Nearby shoppers didn’t even glance up as they stepped through, the wall shifting back into place behind them.

“C’mon!” John said excitedly, tugging on his mother’s arm. “Gringotts first.”

They made their way through the throng of cheerful shoppers towards the wizarding bank, magnificent in marble against the colourful shop windows, stopping only so John could goggle at the display in Quality Quidditch Supplies, where the latest model of broomstick – the Nimbus 2001 – was being admired by a small crowd of people. John had no plans to try out for the Quidditch team himself – his nervousness of heights prevented him from doing so – but even he could appreciate the streamlined, ebony handle and the elegance of the tail-twigs.

When they arrived at Gringotts, there was already a small queue leading up to the main enquiries desk, where a long-nosed goblin was serving a pale, blond boy John recognised as Draco Malfoy – a Slytherin in his year. He guessed that the tall, imposing man beside him must be his father. They shared the same look of self-satisfied smugness. Mrs. Watson steered John over to another desk at the Coin Exchange, where a separate queue of Muggle-born students were waiting with their parents, the majority of whom had the same look of nervous wonderment that Mrs. Watson had as their notes, pounds and pennies were traded for Galleons, Sickles and Knuts. As they joined the end of the line, John saw someone another familiar face standing a couple of places ahead of them.

“Hey, Hermione,” he said loudly, and his Housemate turned to look at him. Her hair was longer and even curlier that it had been last year, and she’d grown an inch or so. John, who had only grown about a quarter of an inch since the end of last term, felt embarrassingly short.

“Hi, John,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “Good summer?”

They chatted cheerily until her parents had exchanged their money and she said, “Well, see you on the train,” and left the building with her mother and father in tow. Five minutes later, John and Mrs. Watson followed suit, John clutching his bag of wizard money with excitement fluttering in his stomach.

“Where to first?” Mrs. Watson asked casually, though John could tell she was still a little perturbed at having just been served gold by a real live goblin.

“Flourish and Blotts,” John said. “I’ve got to get seven new books.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Watson said, pulling John’s booklist out of her handbag and glancing at it. “Just who is this Gilderoy Lockhart? Your teacher clearly thinks a lot of him.”

“He’s some kind of wizard Superman,” John said. He’d asked Sherlock the same thing in his last letter after receiving the booklist. “Or at least everyone seems to think so. But Sherlock says there’s loads of things in his books that don’t quite add up – plot-holes and all that. He also reckons Lockhart himself’s gonna be our new Defence teacher. He’s pretty self-centred.”

“Who – Gilderoy Lockhart or Sherlock?” Mrs. Watson smiled.

John paused then said, “Both.”

Laughing, they stepped into Flourish and Blotts Bookshop. Or at least, they tried to. The whole place was crowded with people – mostly women and girls – all twittering and clamouring to get to the back of the shop, where some kind of press event seemed to be being held. Looking round, John saw a sign he’d missed before just inside the doors – GILDEROY LOCKHART will be signing copies of his autobiography MAGICAL ME today, 12:30 – 4:30 pm.

“Ooh,” Mrs. Watson said, noticing the sign as well. “Isn’t he handsome?”

John, however, thought Lockhart looked like a bit of an idiot – his smile was too wide, his golden hair too perfect. It wouldn’t have surprised him if he put it in curlers before he went to bed. A loud round of applause announced the appearance of the wizard himself, stepping out through a door at the back of the shop. A harassed-looking man was dithering by the bookshelves nearby, desperately trying to persuade the mob of witches to mind the merchandise, but no-one was really paying him any attention. John was just wondering if it might not be better to come back later, when the crowd may have dispersed a little, when Lockhart’s jovial voice boomed: “It can’t be Harry Potter?”

John saw poor Harry – another of his Housemates at Hogwarts – being dragged to the front of the queue and forced to shake Lockhart’s hand as a short photographer clicked his camera madly. 

“Harry Potter,” Mrs. Watson said curiously. “Isn’t that the boy you said defeated that horrible wizard, Voldy-wotsit?”

“Mum,” John said, glancing nervously at a group of witches close-by, who luckily hadn’t heard. “People don’t like the name. You have to call him You-Know-Who. And yes, he is.”

“He doesn’t look like he’s having much fun,” Mrs. Watson observed as Harry was finally released from Lockhart’s hearty handshake. His face was flushed with embarrassment and annoyance. John could hardly blame him – unwanted fame must be hard at the best of time, without being re-illuminated by someone as pompous as Lockhart.  
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the handsome wizard called over the hubbub, which faded as he waved for quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time.”

An excitement whisper rippled through the shop, and Lockhart smiled smugly.

“When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography – which I shall be happy to present to him now, free of charge—” the crowd applauded, and Harry looked like the last thing he ever wanted to see was a copy of Lockhart’s book, free or otherwise, “—he had no idea, that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his school fellows will, in fact, be getting the real, magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that, this September, I will be taking up the post of Defence Against the Dark Art teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

And, even over the cheering and applause of the ecstatic crowd, John heard a low, soft voice say, “Told you so.”

His heart leapt, and he turned with a delighted laugh to see his best friend – Ravenclaw genius, Sherlock Holmes. To John’s slight humiliation – though he was too happy to let it bother him too much at the time – he noted that Sherlock seemed to have grown even more effortlessly striking over the two months they’d not seen each other – he was taller, skinnier, his hair a little longer, and his cheekbones seemed more define by the weight-loss in his face. Clearly amused by John’s undisguised pleasure at seeing him, Sherlock gave him a slanted grin.

“What’re you doing here?” John asked. “I thought you said you’d already got your books?”

“I have,” Sherlock said, nodding to a middle-aged woman in aubergine robes who was clutching a copy of Magical Me and twittering with a friend. “Mrs. Hudson – our laundry lady.”

“And you’re here because?”

“She needed help with the shopping,” he shrugged. “And I had nothing better to do.” 

He smiled lazily at John, who beamed back. He was rather pathetically pleased to see Sherlock – he’d missed him a lot over the summer. Sherlock had been true to his word about writing, but John knew his mind to be quite distracted, and so the letters had sometimes been a little late in coming. Plus, it wasn’t the same as actually having an actual conversation.

“You might want to get your books now,” Sherlock advised, glancing over his shoulder at the advancing crowd of new witches gathering outside the bookshop doors. His eyes then fell on Mrs. Watson, who was surveying him with interest.

“Oh yeah,” John said. “Mum, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, Mum.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mrs. Watson said, holding her hand out, which Sherlock shook with good grace – John knew he wasn’t overly keen on physical contact with people he’d never met. “John’s told me so much about you.”

John blushed as Sherlock’s smile turned slightly smug, and he hurried over to the towering display of Lockhart’s ridiculous books. He was just reaching up to claim a copy of Voyages with Vampires, when there was a loud, metallic thud and he turned just in time to see a tall, red-haired wizard throw himself at the man he recognised as Draco Malfoy’s father. He saw one of the Weasley twins yelling, “Get him, Dad!” and a plump witch – also a redhead – shrieking, “No, Arthur, no!”

The fight caused the crowd of Lockhart fans to move back against the bookshelves, knocking a couple of them over, the books cascading down onto their heads while the panicked shop assistant tried in vain to call off the fight. Then the enormous hands of Hagrid – the Hogwarts gamekeeper – appeared amidst the brawl and forced the two wizards apart. Mr. Weasley was sporting a badly cut lip and Mr. Malfoy seemed to have been hit in the eye with one of the books littering the floor. The shop now looked rather like a tornado had struck it, and John chose this moment of unexpected calm and distraction to gather the rest of his required books and dump them rather heavily in front of the cashier, who was staring, open-mouthed, at Mr. Malfoy stalking from the shop, his son in tow, while Mrs. Weasley was clearly giving her husband a good telling-off.

“Well, that certainly spiced things up,” Sherlock said happily as they stepped back out into the street. “I was starting to get bored.”

“I tell you, that Lucius Malfoy is a bad character,” Mrs. Hudson – clasping her sighed copy of Magical Me to her chest like it was her first-born child – said in a disapproving tone. “The whole Malfoy family’s that way.”

“Were they ever involved in that You-Know-Who fellow?” Mrs. Watson asked.

“Well, they’ve always claimed bewitchment and trickery,” Mrs. Hudson said. “But I don’t believe a word of it, and neither should anyone else. Bad a batch of wizarding folk as ever I met.”

“I thought your family had an elf or something to do your housework,” John said – he and Sherlock were walking a little way behind the two nattering women. 

“A house-elf,” Sherlock said. “Walby. He does the cleaning and cooking and everything, but house-elves aren’t allowed to be presented with clothes, even laundry – it means they’re free to go. Mrs. Hudson just does the washing and ironing.”

“Just how rich is your family?” John asked, impressed.

“Not that rich,” Sherlock said, a little awkwardly. “You don’t pay a house-elf, and Mrs. Hudson’s an old friend of Mother’s.”

They stopped off at a stationary shop so John could top up his parchment, quill and ink supply, the apothecary for ingredients for his potion-making kit, and then popped briefly into Eyelops Owl Emporium for some Owl Nuts for Hector, John’s barn owl.

“Why don’t you have an owl yet?” he asked Sherlock as they made their way back towards the Leaky Cauldron. Mrs. Hudson had treated the two boys to strawberry and peanut-butter ice-creams, which they were making short work of.

“Don’t need one,” Sherlock said shortly, licking a droplet of ice-cream threatening to escape its cone. “Just extra hassle. Mycroft had three by his seventh year – the noise when he was home drove me up the wall.”

“Why would you need three owls?”

“He already had plenty of correspondents at the Ministry by that time – one owl wasn’t fast enough. He did a summer job in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when he was sixteen. Already laying his trail.”

John hoped he’d get to meet Mycroft Holmes one day – he sounded interesting.

It was nearing three as they reached the archway back to the Leaky Cauldron. The throng in the bookshop was still as thick – if not thicker – as before, and the assistant looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“What d’you reckon Lockhart’ll be like as a teacher?” John asked as Mrs. Hudson opened the archway with her wand.

“About the same as his books,” Sherlock snorted as they stepped through the arch toward home. “Predictable, ridiculous, and thoroughly unconvincing.”


	2. Chapter 2

The large clock hanging from platform nine had just struck 10:45 when John and his mother reached it. John gripped the handles of his trolley – bearing a large wooden trunk and Hector’s cage – and lined it up to give himself a clear run at the barrier that would take him to the hidden magic platform nine and three-quarters. Mrs. Watson put a hand on her son’s shoulder and together they moved forward until the mundane Muggle station was replaced by the new, crowded platform where a scarlet steam engine – the Hogwarts Express – was waiting to be boarded.

“You’d better get a seat,” Mrs. Watson said as they dodged round two young boys and their father. The older of the boys had a large camera slung round his neck and had the same look of unbridled excitement that John had had the year before.

“Bye M—” John started to say, before finding himself – as he’d anticipated – enveloped in an enormous hug, the top of his head peppered with kisses, causing a couple of nearby second-year girls to giggle.

“Mum, gerroff!” he wriggled free and she smiled tearfully down at him.

“Keep yourself self, Johnny,” she said, stroking his hair flat.

“I will,” John replied, running a hand across his head to mess it up again.

“Bye, my love,” she said, giving him one last kiss before he turned to board the train. A tall fifth-year boy helped him load his trunk into the nearest compartment and up onto the rack. John recognised him as the Captain on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team – Cedric Diggory.

“Thanks,” he smiled at the handsome Seeker, who gave him a good-natured pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t mention it,” he grinned back, and went off to join his friends. John was momentarily stunned by just how good-looking he was. Shaking his head of this thought, he sat down in the compartment and stared out of the window, where his mother was still standing, waving anxiously at him.

“Hi, John,” a cheerful voice said from the door, and he turned to see his Housemate Molly Hooper standing there, flanked by Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown. Her hair was tied back in a French plait rather than its usual ponytail and, like Hermione when John had seen her in Gringotts, she appeared to have a grown an inch or so.

“Hey, Moll!” he beamed, leaping up to give her a warm hug. He’d missed her too over the holidays, though she’d been a lot more responsive in sending him letters throughout the summer.

“Um, Sherlock not here yet?” she asked, trying to sound casual, and John couldn’t suppress a smirk as he sat back down. He knew full well that Molly held something of a candle for Sherlock, even if the genius himself wasn’t aware of it. Wit beyond measure indeed, except when it came to matters of the female heart.

“Not yet,” John said. “I’ll tell him you said— hey!”

John’s heart leapt as his tall, curly-haired friend stepped into view through the sliding glass panel, dragging his own trunk behind him. Parvati and Lavender collapsed into peals of not-so-silent giggles, and Molly’s face turned peony.

“H-hi, Sherlock,” she stammered.

Sherlock gave her a distracted nod and slid past her into John’s compartment, settling down in the seat opposite him.

“C’mon, Moll,” Lavender said, trying to suppress her excited laughter.

“Yeah, okay,” Molly said, looking thoroughly reluctant to leave “Bye, John. Bye, Sherlock.”

“See you later,” John said, while Sherlock just raised a hand, his eyes fixed on the window.

“That hairstyle makes her forehead look too big,” he said.

“Sherlock,” said John reproachfully. “Whatever you do, don’t say that to her face.”

“I was about to before they left.” The utterly insensitive Ravenclaw stretched his legs out and they heard the porter’s whistle from the platform. John’s eyes sought his mother, who started waving madly as the train slowly began to leave the station, the clouds of steam billowing from the engine almost obscuring her. John waved right up until the last moment when she disappeared from view as they rounded the bend, then he fell back in his seat and sighed. By the evening they would be fast approaching Hogwarts – with its secret passages, rotating staircases and magnificent feasts. His stomach grumbled at the thought of the sumptuous dinner he was planning on having when they got there.

Suddenly, making John jump, Sherlock leapt from his seat and pressed his nose right against the window, staring up at the sky.

“What?” John asked, leaning forward to glance up too, though all he could see was the sheet of clouds.

After a moment, Sherlock sat back. “Did you see Potter and Weasley board the train?” he asked.

John thought. Come to think of it, he hadn’t. “No,” he said. “Why?”

“Because my brother recently received intelligence that Arthur Weasley purchased a Muggle Ford Anglia.”

A pause, in which John’s brain whirred in thought. He desperately tried to keep up with Sherlock’s racing intellect – a feat which mostly proved impossible, as it did now.

“So?”

“Mr. Weasley works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office,” Sherlock explained, “and has something of an obsession with Muggle culture and technology.”

“Shouldn’t he?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is, then?”

“The point is that neither Mycroft or myself would put it past him to do a bit of. . . tinkering on any of the Muggle objects he happens to invest in.”

“Such as?”

“Such as enchanting a car so it can fly— Look, there!”  
John turned his neck so fast he cricked it, just in time to see two sets of black wheels disappear in the haze of cloud.

“But why would Harry and Ron want to fly to school?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, neither of them are the brightest gnome in the garden, are they?” Sherlock snorted. “I’d be willing to bet that if, for any reason, they found they couldn’t get onto the platform, it wouldn’t cross their minds to perhaps send an owl to McGonagall or Dumbledore, but instead to steal Mr. Weasley’s car and fly it.”

John’s mouth was hanging open by this point. “Buy why wouldn’t they be able to?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Blimey,” John said, glancing up at the sky again, but there was no sight of a tyre now. “What a way to travel.”

“I wouldn’t envy them,” Sherlock said with a small smirk. “It’ll be absolutely boiling up there.”

 

Just after midday, the witch with the trolley came round. John stocked up on Pumpkin Pasties and Cauldron Cakes for the rest of the journey, while Sherlock bought one solitary Liquorice Wand.

“So d’you reckon Lockhart will be a good teacher?” John asked Sherlock, munching through his third cake.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his softened liquorice lolling out of his mouth like a black lizard’s tongue. “I reckon he’ll be very good at bigging himself up and boring us all rigid with his ‘heroics’.”

“You really have a bee in your bonnet about him, don’t you?”

John was momentarily amused by the thought of Sherlock in a frilly bonnet, and pursed his lips to stop himself bursting out into laughter.

“Have you read any of his books?”

“So, he’s a bit conceited. Okay, very conceited. But look at all that stuff he says he’s done.”

“That’s just it!” Sherlock said, leaning forward and pointing a long finger at John. “Says he’s done. Where is the actual documented proof that he ever actually did any of those things?”

“Surely someone would have stepped forward if he’d been making it up. One of the villagers, maybe.”

“There is such a thing as memory modification, John,” Sherlock said darkly.

“Why’re you so convinced he’s lying?”

Sherlock sat back and rested the tips of his fingers together. He looked like a Bond villain.

“In all the records of Hogwarts students, not once is he mentioned as being even remotely exceptional. All this ‘talent’ just spawned from nowhere about five years ago, and shops started spewing this swill like it was gospel. Nobody even thought to consider it slightly fishy.”

“Everyone loves a hero,” John shrugged. “Especially handsome ones.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered. “Petty.”

“Bet he was a Hufflepuff,” John smirked. “Nobody that goofy could. . . what?” 

Sherlock’s fingers had balled into fists, his mouth twisting sourly. “He wasn’t a Hufflepuff,” he said. “He was a Ravenclaw.”

There was a brief pause before John burst out laughing. 

“Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,” he guffawed. “More like a good dose of hair tonic!”  
Sherlock’s lips quirked, like he couldn’t help himself, and he joined in John’s laughter.

 

It was already darkening outside when the train rolled into Hogsmeade Station, and John could hear Hagrid’s booming voice across the platform, ushering the trembling first years towards the lake for their traditional boat-ride to the castle. John was quite glad they’d be going up in the horseless carriages, since it was starting to spot with rain. They left their trunks on the platform to be taken to the castle separately, and climbed into a carriage with Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, and Terry Boot – one of Sherlock’s fellow Ravenclaws.

Tired and hungry, there wasn’t much conversation as the carriage trundled up the path towards the huge wooden doors of the castle. There still wasn’t any sign of Harry or Ron – something that Hermione was clearly very nervous about – and the others had started to notice their absence as well. John could hear Draco Malfoy snidely wondering where they might be – whether Harry now considered himself too famous to join the common folk on the train. His thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, guffawed, and another Slytherin boy – whose name John remembered as Moriarty – gave an amused, slightly evil, smirk. He saw John looking and raised his eyebrows in a “what’re you gonna do about it?” way. John frowned and Moriarty muttered something to Malfoy, who nodded with a malicious laugh.

“Why are all the Slytherins such gits?” John wondered aloud, turning his back on them, momentarily forgetting the House-placement of his friend’s brother. “Sorry, I didn’t mean Mycroft.”

“You would if you met him,” Sherlock said.

The great doors opened and they all trouped inside and into the Entrance Hall. A couple of ghosts were floating across the cathedral-high ceiling, and disappeared through the wall into the Great Hall just before the students did themselves.

“See you later,” John said as Sherlock joined the rest of the Ravenclaws at the table next to John and his Housemates. He sat down between Molly and Dean and was staring longingly at his empty plate when the doors opened again and the first-years swarmed in – slightly damp and most of them looking petrified. John remembered well his own Sorting. The hat had originally wanted to put him in Hufflepuff, until something – it didn’t say what – decided to put him in Gryffindor, which he was more than happy with. He had nothing against the Hufflepuffs – they were a generally decent, friendly lot, and just look at Cedric Diggory – but the stigma that came with it was something he could have easily done without. 

Professor McGonagall was just calling the first name on her long list, when there was a deafening CRASH from outside the tall windows. Everyone turned just in time to see something large and square go sailing straight into a knobbly willow tree a short distance from the castle. The tree started creaking and groaning, and there was the sound of heavy wood on metal. Everyone in the hall was silent, staring out the window as the thumps grew more intense. Then, with a nod from Dumbledore, Professor Snape – the oily-haired Potions master – rose from his seat and exited the hall. People started to mutter amongst themselves, but Professor McGonagall gave them all a stern look and they fell silent again.

“What was that?” Molly whispered to John’s right. 

“Flying car,” he replied. “Sherlock reckons, anyway.”

“Did you say flying car?” Fred or George Weasley said from opposite him, a look of disbelief on his freckled face.

“We saw it above the clouds on the train,” John said.

“Crikey,” the other twin laughed. “Good old Ron – didn’t know he had it in him!” 

Anyone within a three-feet radius of him started whispering to each other, spreading the tale that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had flown a magic car to school all the way down the Gryffindor table. John saw Hermione give a disbelieving scowl.

John’s stomach was growling quite profusely by the time the Sorting ended (with “Weasley, Ginny!” being made a Gryffindor – her face glowing almost as scarlet as her hair), and he had to stop himself plunging head-first into the nearest tureen of beef casserole when the spectacular dishes appeared. He helped himself to copious amounts of mashed potato, chicken legs, pork chops and baked beans, his cheeks bulging as he chewed and swallowed. About ten minutes into the meal, Snape re-entered the hall and said something to Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, who both set down their knives and forks and left the room again. Snape looked far too happy for Harry and Ron not to be in a considerable about of trouble.

“D’you think they’ll get expelled?” Molly asked.

“Dunno,” John said. “Snape obviously thinks so.”

They didn’t see Harry and Ron at all as the feast continued, and by the time the puddings had cleared and they were making their various ways to their Houses, most people were wholeheartedly convinced they had been expelled and were already on their way back to London. Malfoy certainly was.

“Even Saint Potter can’t get away with everything,” John heard him gloating a short way down the corridor. “Looks like the Gryffindors will be down a Seeker.”

“He’s such a scumbag,” John said, scowling at the back of Malfoy’s head as the Slytherins headed towards the dungeons. 

“He’s just jealous because everyone likes Harry so much,” Molly said, hopping over a vanishing step on the rotating staircase. John had to do a kind of pirouette to stop himself sinking through it, remembering only at the last second, causing Dean and Seamus to laugh uproariously.

The question of Harry and Ron’s expulsion was answered by the loud roar of admiration that greeted the two of them when they stepped through the portrait whole ten minutes after the other Gryffindors, followed by a shocked-looking Hermione. While they looked sheepish and tired, John could see that Ron was clearly pleased by the attention and even Harry was grinning. John clapped along with everyone else as the two heroes passed him to the boys’ dormitory staircase. Harry caught his eye and grinned ruefully. John grinned back. Only Harry Potter could get away with driving a Muggle car straight into a slap-happy tree and, not only avoid expulsion, but live to tell the tale.

 

The first week of term passed by fairly non-eventfully, though not without some intrigue. Ron’s mother sending him a screaming letter on Monday caused a bit of a stir as breakfast, and Lockhart set a load of pixies loose on them in their first Defence lesson, which pretty much solidified John’s wavering opinions about the foppish bighead – he was clearly useless as a teacher. Then there was an (unfortunately funny) incident where Ron tried to curse Malfoy after he insulted Hermione, and ended up regurgitating slugs for the rest of the afternoon. Then, on Saturday night, the first slightly odd thing of the term happened. It was nearing twelve-thirty, and John was lying awake in bed, trying to convince his brain to let him go back to sleep. He’d woken from a dream that a giant mandrake in a pair of fluffy earmuffs was trying to beat him to death with Magical Me, while Lockhart sang opera nearby. He’d heard Harry come in after his detention with the real Lockhart some thirty minutes ago, and was just drifting off into a snooze again when Ron came stamping in, bringing with him a strong smell of polish. John could hear him grumbling about his sore arms to Harry in the darkness.

“How was it with Lockhart?”

Harry then spoke in a very low voice, but John could just about hear him telling Ron about a disembodied voice he’d heard while in Lockhart’s office – a voice that, from the sound of it, was after something to kill.

“And Lockhart said he couldn’t hear it?” Ron asked. “D’you think he was lying? But I don’t get it – even someone invisible would’ve had to open the door.”

“I know,” said Harry. John heard the two of them climbing into their four-poster beds. “I don’t get it either.”

John lay awake for a good fifteen minutes after that, staring out of the window opposite his bed. It seemed to him that anything remotely strange or mysterious seemed to revolve around Harry, but even hearing voices was a bit worrying. Making a mental note to quiz Sherlock about it tomorrow, John pulled his covers right over his head and drifted off again.

 

“It’s not really much to go on,” Sherlock said the next day as the two of them headed towards the bathrooms. The showers were usually unoccupied this early on a Sunday, and neither of the boys were particularly keen on bathing before an audience. “Could’ve been tiredness.”

“But it’s such a creepy thing to hear,” John said, ducking under Sherlock’s arm as he held the bathroom door open. As they’d hoped, it was empty. “Let me rip you, let me tear you. . .” John shuddered.

“Could’ve been one of the ghosts,” Sherlock said, pulling off his robes and hanging them on a hook by the showers. “The Bloody Baron, maybe.”

“Or Peeves,” John said, wrapping his towel around his waist as they walked through the footbaths to the cubicles.

“Nah, Peeves is way too crude for that,” Sherlock shook his head. “He’d probably just upturn old chamber-pots on their heads or something.” 

“Nice,” John grimaced.

They hung their towels on the rack and stepped into separate cubicles. John got a quick glimpse of Sherlock before he closed the door behind him. Over the summer, Sherlock had gained a bit of muscle in his arms and torso, making him more lithe than the bony skinniness he’d sported last year. It was a nice effect, John couldn’t help but think as he turned on the water and stepped under the spray. He ran his hands over his own, slightly podgy stomach, and vowed to stave off cakes for a while. It was pretty hard not to develop even the smallest image problem when Sherlock Holmes was your best friend – he was so tall and effortlessly handsome, even if he didn’t realise it himself. While Sherlock’s fan-base within the castle seemed to have lessened since last year (now that people were starting realise just how arrogant and insensitive he could really be when he got going), John still caught some of the girls ogling him as he passed in the corridor.

Even John himself found that sometimes, when they were just chilling in the Library or down by the lake, there was a certain pleasantness in observing Sherlock. If it was a sunny day, he would sometimes fall asleep under the trees and John would often take the opportunity to stare at him. He didn’t even realise he was doing it some of the time. Sherlock Holmes was, there was no denying it, a work of art – with those tangled dark curls, high cheekbones and perfect, Cupid’s bow mouth. Even his goddamn neck – pale and elegant, with the slow curve into his shoulder just made for burying one’s face in and kissing—

John blinked and stood straight to attention. God, where had that come from? He didn’t move for a second, his heart thumping a little harder in his chest. He’d actually been thinking about kissing Sherlock – his best friend! That couldn’t be right, could it? John put a hand over his eyes and leaned against the wall. This was just one more thing to add to the list of strange feelings he’d been having for a while. Like when Cedric had helped him with his trunk on the train, or when Harry had smiled at him that night after the car crash. He’d felt a slight stir in his stomach both those times, too. His heart had started fluttering, his cheeks going red. But this was even worse! 

Oh, Merlin’s pants.

John pressed both his hands to his face, his wet body slipping down the wall until he sat on the floor. Looking up, he could just see the tips of Sherlock’s raised elbows above the low cubicle wall as he washed his hair. His stomach did a flip-flop as he imagined the trails of foam moving slowly down Sherlock’s lean body, his narrow hips, his long, long legs. . . 

No! John smacked himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand. He mustn’t think that. Sherlock was his friend. His best friend. No matter what his stupid feelings might hope for, that’s all he was. Besides, Sherlock wasn’t into guys. Sherlock wasn’t into anyone. John was struggling to get to grips with the prospect that he was into guys. It would make a lot of sense, and would explain all the strange feelings he’d had when Sherlock was around at the end of last year. John vividly remembered a time when the two of them had been down by the lake – following an argument – and Sherlock had confessed that John was the only friend he’d ever had. John could feel the warm sense of pride and joy he’d felt at those words – the leap in his chest when Sherlock smiled at him. They were as close as any twelve year old best friends could be – just as close as Harry and Ron. But John was fairly certain Harry didn’t feel an overwhelming leap of joy in his chest when his best friend stepped in the room. Unless John was just really, really pathetic, the only explanation could be that he. . . fancied. . . Sherlock Holmes.

“You nearly done?” Sherlock asked through the wall.

“Uhh,” John clambered to his feet, slipping slightly on the tiles. “One minute.”

He lathered up his hair with shampoo so vigorously he scratched his scalp with his nails. He heard Sherlock exiting his cubicle and rinsed the foam from his head before turning the water off. He opened his door a bit and unhooked his towel from the wall outside, wrapping it round his waist and coming out. Coming out. What a choice set of words. John suppressed a groan at his own misfortune and sat down next to Sherlock on one of the benches that lined the centre of the bathroom, trying not to even look at his friend’s naked torso.

“You okay?” Sherlock asked. The sod had always had an uncanny ability to sense any change in John’s mood, even in the slightest measure.

“Yeah, fine,” John said, a little too quickly, but thankfully Sherlock didn’t seem overly interested. He stretched out his long legs, leaning his head back, and John chanced a glance. Sherlock’s springy hair was sticking out every which-way, roughly towel-dried, his skin still shiny with water, his bare chest almost glowing pale in the morning light from the windows around the bathroom walls. It wouldn’t have surprised John if Sherlock turned out to be some kind of superhuman, or an alien. Was it merely Sherlock’s appearance that drew John’s attention so intensely to him? Sherlock could be irritating, arrogant, downright spiteful at times. He could also be funny, deeply passionate, and even vulnerable in the right light. He was a smorgasbord of emotions, almost bipolar with his mood swings. All in a twelve year old’s body. John dreaded to think what he’d be like as an adult – insufferable, probably, and bloody gorgeous.

They dried themselves in silence, backs to each other, and were just pulling on their robes when a small group of Hufflepuff first-years came in. 

“Timed it pretty well,” Sherlock said. The castle was starting to fill with students, all making their way either to the bathrooms or to breakfast. John’s stomach murmured. Sherlock grinned. “Better get some food into you,” he said.

John forced a laugh, feeling thoroughly miserable, and followed his best friend – just friend – into the Great Hall.


	3. Chapter 3

October rolled around, bringing with it rain, chill, and – on the night of Halloween – a rather dramatic turn of events. The Halloween Feast was as excellent as it had been last year (though without the troll that had been let loose in the dungeons) and John was feeling full and content as he and Sherlock made their way from the Great Hall. Since his revelation as to his feelings for Sherlock, John had decided that the best course of action was to repress them – utterly. It was proving quite a difficult task, but it was better than the alternative – confessing his feelings and not only getting shot down in flames, but losing his best friend entirely.

Accepting the fact that he was gay was surprisingly easier. Now that he knew for sure, it was almost like his brain had gone into overdrive. He started noticing minor things about his fellow male students that he would not have consciously seen two months ago. Like how Harry ran his hand through his hair when he was concentrating, or the way Oliver Wood’s brow furrowed when he was poring over Quidditch game plans. But, true to his word, he’d not even thought twice about the way Sherlock rotated his wand-hand wrist upwards before performing a spell. Or how his left leg jiggled slightly when he was bored. Or the tiny lines that appeared at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. . .

Okay, so the whole not-fancying-Sherlock thing wasn’t going quite as well as planned, but he was trying. 

“What’s going on?” John heard Molly’s voice beside him and he blinked back to reality.

“Huh?”

“Everyone’s going to the first floor girls’ bathroom,” she said, stepping aside so as not to be stampeded by a group of Slytherins led by Malfoy. “Something about Filch’s cat.”

She, John and Sherlock followed the crowd of pupils to the bathroom. The floor was flooded, and John could just see over the tops of people heads something hanging from the torch bracket below a message daubed in red paint on the castle wall: THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE. Molly clapped her hands over her mouth.

“It’s Mrs. Norris!” she gasped, pointing at the stiff thing hanging from the bracket. “Ugh, horrible!”

“Crikey,” John said, glancing at Sherlock. He was squinting, not at the immobile cat, but at the message on the wall, his dark eyebrows knitted in thought.

“Enemies of the heir, beware!” Malfoy’s sneering voice carried over the crowd. “You’ll be next, Mudbloods!”

“What’s a Mudblood?” Molly asked John, as the sound of Filch shoving his way through the crowd caused them to step aside.

“No idea,” John said, as the caretaker began to howl in horror at the sight of his cat, before rounding on Harry, accusing him of doing this to her. Before things got really out of hand, though, Professor Dumbledore’s voice rang out through the corridor. He stepped right up to Mrs. Norris and plucked her from the bracket. She looked like a perfectly stuffed, slightly moth-eaten, toy. He, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Filch and Professors McGonagall and Snape followed a beaming Lockhart to his office, leaving the students in shocked silence. People slowly started to drift off down the corridors, Malfoy sniggering almost gleefully, and Molly left with a group of Gryffindor girls. John and Sherlock joined the small group of pupils standing in front of the wall, ankle-deep in water, staring at the mysterious message.

“D’you know what the Chamber of Secrets is?” John asked Sherlock, who nodded slowly.

“Mother told me about it,” he said. “It’s a secret chamber—”

“I guessed that.”

“—that Salazar Slytherin built within the castle before he left.”

“Why?”

“Because he wanted to accept only pure-bloods into the school,” Sherlock explained. Some of the other students standing nearby starting hanging on his words. “The other founders disagreed and so he walked out. There was a story that the Chamber had a monster in it that Slytherin put there to dispose of all the Muggle-borns in the school, when his heir returned.”

“Who’s the heir?”

“No-one knows,” Sherlock shrugged. 

“Whoever it is,” a nearby Hufflepuff girl says darkly, “looks like they’re back.”

“Could it just be a prank?” John said Sherlock as they moved away from the scene down the candlelit corridor. The sinister words daubed on the wall echoed in John’s head, making the darkening passage seem a lot creepier than usual.

“Can’t rule it out,” Sherlock said. He had that slight crinkle between his eyebrows that John knew meant he was still deep in thought. He also looked slightly annoyed, which John also knew meant he couldn’t think of an explanation for the incident, which frustrated him – Sherlock didn’t like not knowing.

“What’s a Mudblood?” John asked.

Sherlock’s irritation was replaced by a look of distaste. “It’s an offensive term for a witch or wizard with Muggle parentage,” he said. “It’s not a name one would normally hear from anyone with real class.”

“Like calling a black person the N-word?”

“Pretty much.”

“Nice.”

“Exactly.”

“So. . . I’m one,” John said.

“No,” Sherlock said gruffly. “Well. . . yes, but only scum like Malfoy would call you that. You’re a wizard, just like him, and a better one.”

John couldn’t suppress the glow of appreciation and pride he felt. Sherlock wasn’t one to throw compliments about to just anyone – he had to really mean it to offer one.

“But I am Muggle-born,” he said, feeling the glow extinguish slightly by a tiny knot of fear. “And if Slytherin meant to get rid of all of them—”

“Hey,” Sherlock stopped and pulled John round to face him, his pale eyes blazing into John’s. “It could just be a prank, like you said. Someone probably got wind of Filch being a Squib and decided to punish him for it.”

“A what?”

“No magic powers born from a wizarding family. Opposite of a Muggle-born.”

“How d’you know he’s one?”

“Have you ever seen him use a wand?” Sherlock snorted. “He’s always whining about the mess students make – why not just whip it up with a scourging charm? Nah, he’s definitely non-magic.”

“You really think it’s just a joke?”

“Almost eighty percent,” Sherlock said with a smile that John knew was meant to be encouraging, but the falseness behind it didn’t do much for his nagging doubt.

 

While John was not a Quidditch player himself, he enjoyed watching the sport, especially when Gryffindor was playing. Normally, Sherlock liked to avoid the school games – he said the noise and excitement annoyed him to the point of distraction – but this time John had managed to persuade him to come along, simply by pointing out that Malfoy was about to get his sorry butt kicked by Harry. Malfoy’s father had bribed Draco’s way onto the time, providing each of the Slytherin team members with new Nimbus Two-Thousand and Ones. While they certainly put the Comets and Cleansweeps that the Gryffindors flew to shame in terms of speed, they were no match for the red-and-gold-clad team’s effort, co-operation, and Harry’s keen Seeker skills. There was a look of grim resolve on each of the Gryffindor team-members’ faces, and a glint of mad determination in Oliver Wood’s eye. Harry gave Malfoy a look of deepest loathing as they mounted their brooms, which Malfoy returned with a sneer.

It wasn’t ideal game weather – it was starting to spot heavy raindrops and the dark clouds above threatened more. 

“C’mon, Harry,” John muttered as Madam Hooch released the balls and sounded her whistle. The fourteen players rose into the air and he saw Harry’s eyes immediately start darting round for the Golden Snitch. Malfoy zoomed beneath him, shouting some insult that Harry ignored. One of the Bludgers came pelting towards him, causing him to dodge out of the way, only for it to come straight back. One of the Weasley twins deflected it, but just for a moment before it came back for Harry as though magnetised.

“That’s not right,” John said to Sherlock, who was engrossed in the fingernails of his left hand.

“Hmm?” he looked up, squinting at Harry. “What’s not?”

“That Bludger,” John said, a little annoyed that Sherlock hadn’t been paying attention. “It keeps trying to hit him.”

“Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do?” Sherlock sighed, leaning on the rail in front of them. They’d managed to get spaces right at the front, to John’s pleasure and Sherlock’s indifference.

“Not at just one player,” John said. On the pitch, Wood had called for a time-out, and the Gryffindors were huddled together to one side, while the Slytherins looked on in gleeful smugness. They were in the lead, sixty points to zero, and the other Slytherins in the stands were cheering. 

“So one of the Slytherins must have tampered with it,” Sherlock said, clearly no more interested in the game than he was about tomorrow’s breakfast.

“But they’re kept in Hooch’s office between games,” John said, trying to express to Sherlock how important this was. “They wouldn’t have—”

“Does it really matter?” Sherlock said with an irritable groan. Rain was dripping off his hair and down his nose.

“It matters to me,” John said sharply, causing his friend to look round. As much as he liked Sherlock – as much as he really liked Sherlock – he couldn’t half be an insensitive knob at times.

“Sorry,” Sherlock sighed. “But it’s clearly a case of sabotage. The Slytherins probably got one of the house-elves to do it.”

“House-elves?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Elf magic doesn’t have the same limitations as wizard magic does. They can Apparate in and out of the castle, for one.”

“What’s that?”

“Disappearing and reappearing in another place,” Sherlock said. Down below, the game was resuming play, Harry beginning an elaborate set of loops and swerves to evade the rogue Bludger. “Wizards can’t do it inside Hogwarts,” Sherlock continued. “House-elves can. Malfoy’s family’s no doubt got one – probably got his to do it.”

John felt a new wave of dislike towards the green-clad Seeker, who was laughing heartily at Harry’s attempts to avoid getting his skull smashed in. He wouldn’t put it past him to do something like that, rotten little cheat that he was. He was just enjoying a short fantasy of clubbing Malfoy’s smug face in with a Beater’s bat, when his attention was brought sharply back to the game as the Bludger finally hit home on Harry’s right elbow with a sickening crunch that echoed through the stadium. All the Gryffindors, and a good number of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, groaned and winced, while the Slytherins cheered and applauded. Miraculously, Harry stayed on his broom, and darted towards Malfoy like an arrow. John assumed he must have snapped and was going to pummel the sneering Slytherin with his good arm. Malfoy clearly thought so too, for he ducked, and Harry zoomed past, his working hand extended, reaching for a tiny spec of gold glinting just beyond his fingertips.  
John grabbed Sherlock’s arm, who was looking decidedly more interested. He was even leaning forward a little over the rail. He even gave a small smirk as Harry’s fingers closed over the tiny ball and collapsed onto the grass.

“Reckon he’s okay?” John asked once he’d stopped cheering.

“Shouldn’t think so,” Sherlock said, craning his neck slightly at the crowd that was gathering around Harry’s unconscious body. “Uh-oh,” he said. 

“What?” Then John saw it too – Lockhart hurrying through the throng towards Harry. “Oh no. . .”

At the centre of the crowd, Harry tried to sit up, protesting against Lockhart’s offers to help, but slumped again, wincing at the pain caused by his broken arm. John saw a first year boy whose name he thought was Colin something (Hogwarts’ own paparazzi), eagerly taking pictures of the scene. Harry snapped something angrily at him, and then could only lie back, helpless, while Lockhart did some kind of twirly arm-motion that rendered Harry arm limp and thoroughly boneless.

“Wow,” Sherlock said. John had a sneaking suspicion that he was trying very hard not to laugh.

“You’re horrible,” he said, as Ron and Hermione dragged poor Harry off the pitch to the Hospital Wing, while a sheepish-looking Lockhart laughed it off to the crowd. What a prat, John thought.

“Oh, I know,” Sherlock said, unable to stop himself sniggering. “It was like a rubber glove.”

Then he couldn’t stop laughing. He was still giggling – Sherlock Holmes, giggling – when they reached the Great Hall for lunch. Unfortunately, his mirth was highly contagious, and John was having to force himself not to smirk every time someone mentioned Harry’s misfortune. 

“Well,” Sherlock said, a little breathlessly, “I might have to attend more matches, if that’s what I’ve been missing.”

“They’re not all that eventful,” John said. “But yeah, you should. Sherlock, what’re you doing?”

For, upon entering the Great Hall, Sherlock had turned the complete opposite direction to his House table and planted himself firmly on the end of the Gryffindor bench. A couple of fifth-year girls sitting on the other side looked at him, confused.

“Does it really matter where we sit?” Sherlock said, blinking up at John innocently. John’s heart gave a flutter. “It’s too boring over there.”

“Uhh,” Sherlock glanced up at the staff table. None of the teachers sitting there seemed to have noticed Sherlock’s decisive change in placement, though he thought he saw Dumbledore give him the tiniest of smiles before returning his attention back to his plate. Shrugging, John sat down next to his friend and helped himself to shepherd’s pie.

Throughout the meal, the other Gryffindors and some of the nearby Ravenclaws kept giving Sherlock bemused looks, which he completely ignored, but made John feel a little awkward. Whenever he caught the eye of one of his Housemates, he just gave an apologetic sort of shrug and focused on eating. It was nice having Sherlock sitting beside him, though. They talked about their latest stack of Transfiguration homework, and moaned about Lockhart’s teaching ineptitude – a favourite subject of Sherlock’s. They weren’t so much learning from him anymore, rather he read out long passages of his books and shanghaied Harry into re-enacting them with him in front of the class. John had felt the heat of poor Harry’s shame last lesson when he was forced to be a werewolf Lockhart apparently defeated single-handedly.

“It is all bollocks, isn’t it?” John asked as the puddings appeared on the gleaming platters in front of them.

“Oh, totally,” Sherlock nodded fervently. “I’ve certainly never heard of the ‘Homorphous Charm’. I’d bet you a Galleon it’s not real.”

John shook his head, smirking. A forlorn-sounding sigh from across the table made him look up. Colin Something was perched on the edge of the bench, poking morosely at his chocolate trifle with his spoon.

“What’s up, Colin?” John asked him. Colin looked up and sighed again.

“I feel bad,” Colin said. “Harry was really annoyed when I was taking pictures of him at the match.”

“Well, he was lying in the mud with a broken arm,” Sherlock said. “Times and places, you know. . .”

“You,” John said with a reproachful nudge in his friend’s ribs, “are no-one to talk when it comes to tact.” He smiled back at Colin. “I’m sure he won’t be mad when he gets out of the Hospital Wing,” he assured him. “Not once Madam Pomfrey’s grown his bones back.”

Some of Colin’s glumness was replaced by a spark of interest and his eyes widened. “She can do that?” he asked in wonder.

“Of course,” John said. Sherlock had told him about a case when he was seven and Mycroft had accidentally managed to vanish the bones from his own left thumb while practicing a spell. He’d had to take this horrible potion called Skele-Gro. “He’ll be fine.”

“Oh good,” Colin said, eyes shining. “He’s, like, my idol.”

“Never would have guessed,” Sherlock said dryly, but the sarcasm was clearly wasted on the excitable first-year.

“D’you reckon he’d mind if I visited him this evening?” Colin asked. 

“Um, well,” John wasn’t sure Harry’s forgiveness would stretch to being ogled at by Colin when he was lying in a hospital bed having his bones painfully re-grown.

“Of course he wouldn’t mind,” Sherlock said jovially. “Bring him some grapes, while you’re at it.”

“Great!” Colin said, grabbing a bunch from a nearby fruit-bowl. “I’ll tell him you say hi when I go, okay?”

“Make sure you do,” Sherlock said, and the small boy hurried off. “What?” he asked, in response to John’s less-than-impressed look.

“I see you’re feeling vindictive today,” he said, shaking his head. 

“Nah, just. . . playful,” Sherlock said. His amusement at Harry’s accident had clearly affected him a bit too much, John thought. He was now on one of his weird highs.

“Sherlock, you are about as playful as Professor Snape,” John said. “You’re just being mean.”

“But gleefully so,” Sherlock grinned broadly. Despite his exasperation, John felt that (now familiar) swooping sensation in his stomach he experienced whenever his friend smiled like that. It only happened when he was on a high, which made John almost wish they happened more often – though not when he was encouraging first-years to torment John’s Housemates.


	4. Chapter 4

The news that Colin had been attacked in the same form as Mrs. Norris spread through the school faster than wildfire, and ignited a spark of panic amongst the students, especially those born to Muggle parents. The attack made Molly so fearful that she flatly refused to leave the Gryffindor Common Room after dinner, and wouldn’t even go to the bathroom without two or three friends to accompany her. John wasn’t quite so nervous, but he still found himself glancing over his shoulder more often than usual when walking down long corridors. 

The attack had also had a profound effect on Sherlock – who was experiencing guilt for possibly the first time, as it was he who suggested Colin visit the Hospital Wing in the first place. He was sullen and withdrawn – even more than he was usually – during the days following the news, and had taken to sharply asking John where he was going if he so much as shifted in his seat. The fact that he was worried about him did please John somewhat, but it grew tiresome after a few days.

“I’m just stretching,” John snapped in exasperation when Sherlock made a sharp movement in response to John uncrossing his legs on the settee one evening. Following his self-invite onto the Gryffindor table, he’d also become an unofficial guest in their Common Room of most evenings. Some of John’s housemates found this strange, but when the issue was brought up with Professor McGonagall, she said that there wasn’t any rule that stated Sherlock couldn’t enter the Common Room, and as long as he didn’t cause any real trouble while there, she saw no reason to oust him. 

Sherlock settled back into the armchair he was sitting in, legs brought up and curled underneath him, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two open against his knees.

“Did you see the Duelling Club notice?” John asked, looking up from the long roll of parchment he was scribbling that week’s Charms homework on.

“Mm,” Sherlock said. 

“Worth looking into?”

“Not really,” the Ravenclaw shrugged. “No-one worth duelling.”

“Well, I’m going,” John said. Sherlock’s head jerked slightly and he closed his book with a snap.

“D’you really want to?” he asked. John smirked inwardly. He couldn’t help but love these moments when Sherlock actually took an interest in what he did. It did nothing for his attempts to quash his feelings for him, but it did fill him with a warm, fuzzy feeling that was considerably more preferable to the hopelessness he felt when his thoughts revolved around his unrequited attraction.

“Yes, Sherlock,” he said. “It could be useful.”

Sherlock seemed to face an inward battle for a moment. Crowding into the Great Hall with every (in his not-so-humble opinion) magically incapable student in the school, whipping their arses with one flick of a finger, was not Sherlock’s idea of an evening well-spent. On the other hand, letting John go by himself seemed almost as intolerable. John was starting to feel more like Sherlock’s newborn son rather than his best friend.

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed. “You can go.”

John was torn between amusement and indignation at this comment.

The night of the Duelling Club proved, if not particularly instructive (what could one really expect from further teachings by Lockhart?), but certainly illuminating in other ways. The fact that Harry was a Parselmouth, for one. According to Sherlock, the ability to communicate with snakes was not an ability most Gryffindors would covet, seeing as it was the trademark talent of Salazar Slytherin himself.

“Is there any chance Harry is related to Slytherin?” John asked him one day as they sat down at their usual table in the Library. John’s Herbology lesson had been cancelled due to the heavy snowfall outside and Sherlock had decided to skip History of Magic to join him. The Library was fairly deserted – the other Gryffindors and Hufflepuff second-years were mostly in their Common Rooms – save for a couple of Ravenclaw sixth-years on a study period and a small table of Hufflepuffs John would have normally be sharing class with.

“It’s certainly possible,” Sherlock said, dropping his bag on the ground and reclining in his seat. “Mother has this ancient book on wizarding genealogy, and it looks like his father’s line is pure-blood all the way – right back to the Peverells. Pretty much all pure-blood families are related nowadays.”

“Does that mean that you and Harry are related?” John asked interestedly, for Sherlock was pure-blood himself.

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “Very distantly though, if we are.”

John folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them.

“I feel sorry for Harry,” he said.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, closing his eyes against the bright winter light sifting through the window.

“Because everyone’s gonna be thinking he’s Slytherin’s heir now, aren’t they? Him, the one who got rid of You-Know-Who in the first place.”

“They’ll start thinking he only managed that because he’s some powerful Dark wizard or something,” Sherlock said. “You know how ignorant people are.”

“I heard Macmillan from Hufflepuff talking about when we came in,” John said, glancing over at the table nearest them, where Macmillan was muttering with his housemates. “He certainly reckons Harry’s got something to hide.”

“He’s a narrow-minded moron,” Sherlock said, none-too-quietly, and John smirked. “Potter’s about as much Slytherin’s heir as Filch is the next Merlin. People always jump to the easiest conclusion because they’re too lazy or stupid to think outside the box.”

“So who d’you think is Slytherin’s heir?” John asked.

“Well, obviously a Slytherin,” Sherlock said. “Wouldn’t make sense to be anyone else, would it? Wouldn’t surprise me if it was good old You-Know-Who himself.”

“You mean he’s come back?” John sat up, startled.

“No,” Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John. “I mean he’s one of the most powerful Dark wizards in history. He managed to possess Quirrell last year to get what he wanted, didn’t he? He almost managed it. Who’s the say he couldn’t do it again by some other means?”

“So he could have possessed someone this time?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Blimey.”

“Yep.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Sherlock leaned back against the bookcase behind him. John eyed him subtly, admiring the perfection of his dark eyelashes and the way his chest gently rose and fell with each breath. He held back a wistful sigh and averted his attention to the now completely silent Hufflepuffs sitting by them. Harry was standing beside their table, looking thoroughly pissed off, and Macmillan looked like he’d just been Petrified himself. 

“Sherlock,” he muttered. Sherlock opened his eyes and followed John’s eye-line.

“Hello,” said Harry, an edge to his voice. Understandable. “I’m looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley.”

John glanced at Sherlock, who was squinting pensively at Harry.

“What do you want with him?” said Macmillan shakily.

“I wanted to tell him what really happened with that snake at the Duelling Club,” Harry said.

“We were all there. We saw what happened.”

“Then you noticed that, after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?” Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

“Anyone with half a mind could see that,” Sherlock muttered, as Macmillan argued back. “Why’re Hufflepuffs so incorrigibly stupid?”

“I was nearly one,” John reminded him.

“My point exactly,” Sherlock smirked. John dealt him a kick under the table.

Harry stormed out of the Library, leaving the Hufflepuffs looking scared but thoroughly convinced that Macmillan’s theory was entire true.

“C’mon,” John said, shouldering his bag and getting to his feet, Sherlock following suit. He felt so angry on Harry’s part, he couldn’t resist pausing by the Hufflepuffs’ table and saying coldly, “D’you honestly believe that he’s the one attacking people?”

“All evidence points towards him,” Macmillan said pompously. “You’re just blinded by the fact that he’s Gryffindor’s golden boy.”

“You’re blinded by stupidity,” John snapped. “Explain to me how a Gryffindor can possibly be the heir of Slytherin in the first place?”

“Well,” Macmillan began, swallowed, and turned his back to John. “I don’t have to explain anything to you, Watson, if you’re too close-minded to think of it yourself.”

In a flash, John saw Sherlock’s foot hook round one of the legs of Macmillan’s chair and tug it forcefully backwards, causing Macmillan to lose balance and almost knock his chin on the table.

“Let’s go,” he said to John, strolling calmly out of the Library, John following with one last contemptuous look at the stunned Hufflepuffs.

“I’d have expected that sort of thing from the Slytherins,” he said as they made their way back down the corridor to the Gryffindor Common Room, “but not them.”

“Fear brings out the worst in people,” Sherlock said. “Makes people think and so things they wouldn’t necessarily do normally.”

John opened his mouth to reply, when an ear-splitting yell sounded from an upper level of the castle: “ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!”

“That’s Peeves,” John said in alarm.

“Third floor,” Sherlock deduced, and the two of them went running off down the passage towards the nearest staircase. By the time they arrived on the scene, there was already a sizeable crowd around the two stationary victims – Justin Finch-Fletchley and (to John’s amazement) Nearly-Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. He was floating horizontal to the floor, his normally pearly white appearance changed to smoky black. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. 

“Oh my God,” John gasped. Sherlock was staring, wide-eyed, transfixed by the sight. John could almost see the cogs whirring inside his head and he fought to find an explanation for this new phenomenon.

“Caught in the act!” he heard Macmillan’s voice yell, pointing a shaking finger at Harry, who was standing some feet away from Justin and Nick.

“That will do, Macmillan!” Professor McGonagall snapped, silencing the outraged Hufflepuff.

“What d’you reckon?” John asked Sherlock as Macmillan began wafting Nick off to the Hospital Wing with a fan procured by McGonagall, in the wake of the teachers carrying Justin.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. His teeth were gritted, which John knew to be a sign that he couldn’t come up with any kind of deduction or solution as to what was happened. This always frustrated him to no end.

“What sort of thing could do that to a ghost?” he wondered aloud as they made their way slowly back to Gryffindor tower, while a flabbergasted Harry was marched off by Professor McGonagall, no doubt to see the Headmaster.

“You don’t think Dumbledore thinks it’s Harry doing this too, do you?” John asked nervously.

“Of course not,” Sherlock said. “He’s smarter than that. But that’s not important,” he stopped so suddenly that John walked right into the back of him. Sherlock turned and took hold of John by the shoulders. John felt his face flush and fought to keep his expression passive in response to the taller boy’s intense stare. “John. You might want to take a leaf out of Hooper’s book and stay in the Common Room after dinner.”

“Huh?” John blinked.

“It could be you next time,” Sherlock said, marching them both off in the direction of Gryffindor tower, one hand still fixed on John’s upper arm. “Don’t let it.”

 

“Make way for the heir of Slytherin!” the Weasley twins’ voices echoed down the crowded Transfiguration corridor as they walked ahead of Harry. “Seriously evil wizard coming through!”

Despite the inappropriateness of the joke, John couldn’t help but laugh. He knew, from overhearing him tell Ron and Hermione in the Common Room, that Harry actually found Fred and George’s humour at the idea of his being Slytherin’s heir a comfort rather than an annoyance. It was the last week of term before the Christmas holidays began and, from the looks of it, the school was going to be pretty much empty. Mostly all the Muggle-born students – John and Molly included – had signed up for seats on the train back to London for the break, so it was starting to look like it would be a quiet Christmas Day at Hogwarts. Both John and Sherlock’s presence was required at their respective family homes, though both had expressed an interest in staying behind at the castle one year.

“Maybe next Christmas,” John said as they discussed the topic while strolling the grounds on Monday morning. Herbology had been cancelled again due to the bad weather, so naturally Sherlock had skipped History of Magic. There were other students about – throwing snowballs at each other and building clumsy snowmen. Everyone was wrapped up warmly in scarves, gloves and hats. Well, everyone except Sherlock. John knew Sherlock would rather suffer frostbite than pull a woolly hat on over his curly hair. He had, however, consented to wear the blue knitted scarf sent to him by Mrs. Hudson earlier in the month. “I could always go home for Easter instead.”

“It’d be one less mouth for Walby,” Sherlock said.

“Doesn’t your mum make dinner?” John asked. 

Sherlock laughed loudly.

“Cripes, no,” he said. “I don’t think Mother’s cooked for herself since 1972. She and Mycroft don’t normally hang around for Christmas, anyway.”

John frowned. “What d’you mean?”

“Well, Mother normally retires to her room with a sherry and Walby brings her up a tray, and Mycroft doesn’t consider Christmas Day a worthy use of his time, so he goes out. Normally it’s just me and Walby if Mrs. Hudson goes to her sister’s, which I think she is this year.”

“Just you. . . and your house-elf?”

“Mm-hmm,” Sherlock nodded. “It’s no big deal. It’s just Christmas.”

Just Christmas. The thought of Sherlock eating his Christmas dinner with no-one but a wizened house-elf for company – pulling a solitary cracker, if there were crackers at all – almost caused John to burst into hysterical sobs. That lunchtime, he made a quick visit to the Owlery armed with a letter addressed to his parents.

It wasn’t until Wednesday that the reply came. John and Sherlock were relaxing by the Gryffindor fire when John caught sight of a barn owl tapping at the window, envelope in beak. He tore the letter open – rewarding Hector with a few crusts of the bread they’d been toasting – and broke out in a wide smile.

“Sherlock?” he said, sitting back down on the pouf he’d just vacated.

“Yeah?” Sherlock was reading a very large Library book and didn’t look up.

“How’d you like to spend Christmas at my house?”

Sherlock snapped his head up and stared at John, who suddenly felt nervous. Maybe it was presumptuous of him to think that Sherlock would want to spend the holidays in a Muggle household.

“Christmas. . . with you?” he said.

“And my family,” John said. “You’d have to put up with my sister but she sulks most of the time so she might not say much and my mum fusses a bit but her cooking’s really good and we play charades and go carolling and. . . yeah.” He found he was feeling more awkward as he went on, and Sherlock was just staring at him, apparently struck dumb. When he did speak, however, his voice had become quiet and humble and very un-Sherlock-like.

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s very. . . kind of you, John.”

“No, it’s not,” John said quickly. He wasn’t used to this side of Sherlock and almost wanted to hear the sort of arrogant, snarky comment he was used to. He looked so pleased and unlike his usual cool demeanour it was causing quite a pang in John’s chest. “Mum always makes too much turkey and we’ve got a camp-bed you can sleep on in my room.”

“You mean I’d be there for the whole holiday?” Sherlock said. John’s stomach swooped at the look of almost childish disbelief on his face. 

“If you wanted to. . .” John said shyly. Sherlock stood up and leaned forward – John was sure for a moment he was going to hug him – before standing back and jerking his arms in a strange movement, then sitting back down again, clenching and unclenching his fists against his knees. This was a side John had never seen in his friend before – Sherlock was ecstatically happy. 

 

By the time the last day of term rolled round, John was fairly certain he’d broken something inside of Sherlock – short-circuited his motherboard or something. Every so often he’d break out in a manic grin and ask John for the millionth time if it was really okay for him to be invading his Christmas. John assured him it was fine, but didn’t add that Sherlock would be making his Christmas rather than invading it. The only thing he was slightly worried about was Harriet. She’d taken to referring to Sherlock as John’s ‘boyfriend’ during the previous summer, but John was clinging to the hope that their mother would have drilled it into his sister that she was to be on her best behaviour in front of their guest.

December 21st arrived, and all students returning to their homes (which was to say most of them) were gathered at Hogsmeade Station. John had only packed a single bag with the things he thought he might need over the days away from school – leaving his robes, books and other school equipment in his trunk in the dormitory. Since Sherlock’s had all his overnight things to bring, he’d elected to bring his whole trunk, and he kept bending down to open it, checking he’d packed one thing or another. John didn’t think he’d ever seen his friend so fidgety, even in his most intense sessions of boredom.

The scarlet engine rounded the bend and everyone gathered their belongings, ready to board. John saw Molly glancing round anxiously as the train slowed to a halt, as though the monster of Slytherin might be lurking behind a dustbin or something, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting Muggle-borns gathered there. He hitched his bag a little higher on his shoulder and helped Sherlock haul his trunk onto the train. They settled in an empty compartment and Sherlock rested his feet on the space of seat next to John, his left leg jiggling slightly in anticipation. John couldn’t suppress the grin of delight at his friend’s excitement. He just hoped it would play to his expectations. As the hours passed, he began to see why Sherlock didn’t put much store by excessive emotions like joy or love – the former certainly did something to his common sense. When the lady with the trolley came round, he declined her offer, stating he didn’t want to spoil his Christmas dinner. John waited until the witch was gone before reminding Sherlock that Christmas Day wasn’t for another four days.

After they’d pulled into King’s Cross, the two boys lugged their belongings from the luggage rack and stepped out on the platform. John knew his parents would be waiting for him beyond the magic barrier, so they dragged Sherlock’s trunk onto a trolley and joined the line of students waiting to depart the magical platform. 

“John, Sherlock, wait!”

Molly was running towards them, two sealed envelopes clasped in her hand. She handed one to each of the boys. It was a handmade Christmas card – John’s had an artistically-drawn robin on the front, Sherlock’s a sprig of holly. 

“Thanks, Moll,” John said, reaching into his bag for the card he’d (at the last minute) thought to get her. Sherlock, who’d obviously not given a moment’s thought to the notion of Christmas cards, stowed his card in the pocket of his coat and, leaning forward, pecked her lightly on the cheek. If John was surprised, it was nothing to how Molly looked – John thought she might actually pass out.

“Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said.

“Blimey, Sherlock,” John said, after Molly had disappeared – still peony-faced – through the barrier. “Were you visited by three ghosts last night or something?”

“Huh?” Sherlock blinked, confused. John shook his head. While he was happy Sherlock had thought to do something nice in return for Molly, he couldn’t help feeling jealous –he doubted an entire cartload of cards would give Sherlock the notion of kissing him on the cheek.

John’s parents were waiting for them a short way from the barrier, beaming and waving as the two boys came into view. John saw Sherlock looking a bit nervous and gave him a nudge and an encouraging smile. It felt nice to be the cool, confident one in their friendship for once. This was foreign territory for Sherlock.

Mr. and Mrs. Watson greeted Sherlock as warmly as they welcomed their son (though John was glad his mother refrained from hugging and kissing the life out of him as well), and Mr. Watson took control of Sherlock’s trolley as they headed off towards the car. Sherlock seemed to regain some of his confidence on the drive back, asking Mr. Watson various questions about the battered Ford Fiesta – where the engine was, how the gear-stick worked and suchlike – and becoming deeply engrossed with the music on the car radio, having grown up listening to the Wizarding Wireless Network.

As they pulled into the driveway of number thirty-six, Alderton Crescent, John felt a small bundle of nerves knot in his stomach. Having grown up in the lifestyle a pure-blood was no doubt accustomed to, he hoped Sherlock wouldn’t think his own home too small or simple. Sherlock’s ardent fascination with the TV, stereo and microwave – which John had to prevent him putting random items into throughout the rest of the evening – put these fears to rest. His mother had already set up the camp-bed beside John’s own bed, and had even hung up a new stocking, royal blue for Ravenclaw, on the fireplace.

Harriet, who’d been spending the day at a friend’s, arrived home at about nine. Obviously she must have known Sherlock was coming, but it didn’t stop her staring at him with suspicion, like he was about to turn the coffee table into a goat or something. At ten-thirty, Mrs. Watson announced it was time for the two boys to go to bed. As they settled down beneath their respective duvets, John allowed himself a moment to enjoy the butterflies flitting around his stomach. Sherlock’s pyjamas consisted of full-length, navy trousers and shirt, but it was still a thrill to think that the object of his pre-pubescent desires was going to be sleeping in the same room as he.

The days before Christmas passed quickly. Sherlock’s infectious excitement had everyone striving to make sure this would be the most Christmassy Christmas ever. Even Harriet got into the swing of it, set to paper-chain and tinsel duty by Mrs. Watson, while Sherlock and John decorated the tree. John thought it would have been nice for them to have a real tree for Sherlock’s First Real Christmas (which was starting to feel like some cheesy movie, with a sequel called Sherlock Saves Christmas or something like that), but for the sake of Mrs. Watson’s carpet, they were making do with an artificial one. Still, once the baubles were strung and placed at random intervals on the branches (Sherlock liked to go for the as-many-as-possible-in-one-place look), and the rainbow lights were weaved in between (after much untangling and swearing from Mr. Watson, as t’was tradition) everything was starting to look very festive indeed.

It was Christmas Eve, and the four Watsons and Sherlock were walking down the street of Alderton Crescent, torches in hand, singing for all they were worth. A few family friends had come along with them, and they made for a very merry party as they tramped through the snow. Luckily, nobody seemed to notice Sherlock’s lyrical differences in the songs they were singing – like God Rest Ye Merry, Hippogriffs and Hark! The Herald Merfolk Sing. It was a very festive night – the amber light from the streetlamps cast a warm glow over the white ground, and every house with fairy lights illuminating its face was twinkling merrily through the darkness.

They stopped off at a family friend’s house for mulled wine and mince pies before returning home. The entrance to the garden was adorned with holly, ivy, and a tiny sprig of mistletoe. John’s heart leapt when he saw it, and positively jumped right out of his mouth when he saw Sherlock glance upwards as they passed beneath it.

“Hmm, mistletoe,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Isn’t the tradition to kiss underneath it?”

“Umm, y-yes,” John nodded, hoping Sherlock would just think it was the cold making him stammer.

“Huh,” Sherlock looked down at his friend. John suddenly wished he hadn’t chosen to wear such an awful bobble-hat upon leaving the house – he felt like a fool. “Well, since it’s Christmas. Though I imagine alterations can be made for same-sex meetings beneath it.”

John could feel something rising in his chest – a girly squeal, he feared – as Sherlock took hold of his hand and eased the glove from his trembling fingers. Then – John feeling certain he’d died somewhere between numbers twenty-four and thirty-two on the street and gone straight to heaven – he brought John’s knuckles to his lips and kissed them lightly, eyes closed and his own hand perfectly still. He released John’s fingers – which felt cold at the absence of his touch – and gave him the warmest smile John had ever seen bless those beautiful lips.

“Merry Christmas, John,” he said.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” John replied. 

As Sherlock turned to go inside the warm house, where the sound of laughter and clinking glasses could be heard, John had to wipe small traces of tears from his eyes. It was the closest he’d ever come to the kind of physical affection he craved from his best friend, and was most likely the closest he was ever going to get, but at that moment he was so blissfully happy he didn’t care. Not tonight, when the street was so beautiful and Sherlock was there and smiling at him like he wished to be nowhere else on Earth. And John believed, as he smiled back at the boy he was sure he had just fallen in love with, that it was true.


	5. Chapter 5

In the days following Christmas, neither John nor Sherlock mentioned the moment under the mistletoe, which was partly a relief for John. He was certain that if Sherlock brought up the subject, he’d go the same colour as the Gryffindor socks his mother had given him and just burble. That wasn’t to say he didn’t revisit it in his own mind, when Sherlock wasn’t in the room. That might sound a little dodgy, but it really wasn’t – his thoughts were purer than that, at least for now. He just closed his eyes and remembered the feel of Sherlock’s warm lips on his hand, the way he’d smiled back at him from the door. Second to receiving his Hogwarts acceptance letter, it was fast becoming one of the most amazing moments of John’s short life.

Christmas Day had been a joyous affair – even Harriet had consented to be merry. John wasn’t sure what the highest point of the day was. There was Sherlock’s face when Mrs. Watson brought through the steaming banquet of food – turkey, crackling, pigs-in-blankets, carrots, peas, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, gravy and various sumptuous puddings to follow. By the time it was over, even Sherlock was nursing a miniature food-bump beneath the material of the new jumper John’s parents had bought for him – blue in contrast to John’s red. Then there was his confusion at the prospect of wearing the paper crown, followed by the sight of him wearing said crown. Then there was the moment he saw the pile of presents wrapped in blue sparkly paper awaiting him beneath the tree. He looked so innocently happy that John had to resist the urge to grab him and squeeze him to death. 

All too soon, it was time to return to school. Sherlock awkwardly thanked John’s parents at least a hundred times for their hospitality and generosity. From the look on Mrs. Watson’s face, John knew she would have happily adopted him as a second – better-looking – son.

Now that Christmas over, Sherlock started to slip back into his usual persona. While John missed the childish delight he’d seen on his face over the holidays, it was good to see the old Sherlock back again, with his sarky comments and arrogant smirk.

“Well, that was refreshing,” he said as they stepped off the Hogwarts Express into the still snow-swirled air. “Thank you, John.”

“Anytime,” John said with a grin. Sherlock hadn’t thought it so refreshing when John had bellowed, “MERRY CHRISTMAS SHERLOCK!” in a manner of which Peeves would be proud on Christmas morning. As John recalled, he’d tried to throttle him before John had distracted him with the bulging stocking at the foot of his camp-bed.

“Good to be back,” John said. Harriet’s good mood had started to evaporate by the end of the break, and she’d started making snide comments in regards to Sherlock and John’s relationship, often when both boys were in the room.

“Yeah,” Sherlock said, lifting the collar of his coat and putting his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go, I’m freezing.”

There was a surge to get into the carriages, and Sherlock and John were resigned to the very last one with Molly and a third year Hufflepuff boy whose name John didn’t know. Molly and John chatted about their Christmases while Sherlock stared out of the window at the snowy landscape. 

John and Molly parted ways with Sherlock in the Great Hall, as Sherlock needed to take his trunk back to the Ravenclaw Common Room.

“So Sherlock spent Christmas with you?” Molly asked, and John saw that familiar look of wistfulness in her face.  
John had done a lot of thinking on the train journey back to Hogsmeade Station. He was quite literally dying to confide in someone – anyone – about his conundrum in regards to his feelings for Sherlock. The only person he could think of who wouldn’t judge him or treat him differently afterwards was Molly, but her own – blatantly romantic – feelings for his friend made it impossible.

As they rounded the corner, they almost bumped into Harry and Ron, who were both sporting concerned looks on their faces and carrying what looked like Lockhart’s entire selection of books in their arms.

“Hi,” John said. “Good Christmas?”

“Not bad,” Harry said, but Ron gave a badly-concealed snort.

 

“What?” John asked.

“Nothing,” Harry said, looking reproachfully at his friend. “We’re just off to see Hermione in the Hospital Wing.”

Thoughts of Hermione lying comatose on a hospital bed entered his mind, and the blood drained from Molly’s face. “Is she. . .?”

“Oh, she’s alright,” Harry said quickly. “Just a bit. . .”

“Not herself,” Ron finished, with a small smirk.

“She wanted us to bring her books,” Harry said, looking distastefully at the cover of Holidays with Hags under his nose. “Bit boring for her there all day.”

“Right,” John said. “Well, see you later.”

“Oh God,” Molly sighed in relief, hand on her chest, “I thought she—”

“Yeah,” John said. “Me too. Though,” he said with an ironic snort, “if she was attacked it would direct the accusations away from Harry.”

“Oh, don’t!” Molly said. “I was almost too nervous to come back.”

“Well, there haven’t been any attacked since we’ve been gone,” John said in what he hoped was a comforting way. “Maybe the monster’s got an eggnog hangover.”

Molly laughed despite herself and the two of them came to the Gryffindor Common Room. The Fat Lady was snoozing in her portrait, a good number of sherry bottles still scattered around the plump armchair she was painted in.

“Is the password still the same?” she asked John, who shrugged.

“Felix dies Nativitatis,” John said loudly, but she remained firmly asleep. “Apparently not,” he sighed.  
At that moment, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan came tramping up the stairs, slightly damp from the outside snow and dragging their own trunks behind them.

“Hey guys, d’you know the password?” John asked.

“Felix sit annus novus,” Dean said. “Percy just told me downstairs.”

“Again with the Latin,” John said as the Fat Lady roused grumpily and swung open for the four of them. “Poor old Neville’s gonna be in trouble.”

Word that Hermione was holed up in the Hospital Wing spread fast, and many of the students, like John, initially assumed the worst and that the heir of Slytherin had struck again. Harry and Ron had to assure at least fifty people in the first week alone that no, she was not Petrified, but they also refused to confess what actually was wrong with her.

“Harry,” John said to his housemate one night. It was nearing one in the morning, and the two of them were the last ones left in the Common Room, Sherlock having gone back to Ravenclaw Tower some forty minutes ago. John was adding the finishing touches to his Charms essay, due in the next day, and Harry was battling through two rolls of parchment on goblin rebellions for Professor Binns. 

“Mm?” Harry replied, not looking up from his notes, borrowed from Hermione, as usual.

“What is wrong with Hermione?” John asked.

Now Harry did look up. He opened his mouth and John was certain he was going to recite the “I can’t possibly say” speech he’d been giving to everyone all week, so he added, “I promise I won’t tell anyone, whatever it is. I just want to know.”

Harry dropped his quill and rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking exhausted. He ran a hand through his scruffy black hair and stared at John, who subconsciously noted how amazing his green eyes were. In the firelight they almost glowed.

“Okay,” he said tiredly. John put down his own quill and leaned forward on the settee. He listened intently as Harry described the adventures he and Ron had had over the Christmas holidays – how they’d disguised themselves with a potion Hermione had brewed in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, and infiltrated the Slytherin’s Common Room to interrogate Malfoy on being the heir of Slytherin.

“What did he say?” John asked eagerly. He was leaning so fear forward now he was in danger of tumbling into the fire-grate.  
“He said he wished he knew who the heir was so he could give them a hand,” Harry said glumly. “He doesn’t have a clue who it is, either.”

“Damn,” John said. “He’s such a slimy git I was almost certain. . .”

“Yeah, us too,” Harry said. “Anyway, Hermione put a cat hair in her glass instead of Millicent Bullstrode’s and now she’s, well. . . part cat. The potion’s not meant for animal transformations.”

“Wow,” John said, trying to suppress a giggle, but the thought of Hermione’s haughty face with fur and cat’s ears was too funny not to. He and Harry had a quiet laugh together. John was suddenly struck by a strange and overpowering desire. . . Harry wouldn’t laugh. He could tell him, right?

“Harry,” he said again.

“I’m listening,” Harry said, picking up his notes and leafing through them.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah?”

John’s heart was pounding. He double-checked that there wasn’t anyone else in the room lurking in a corner – not even a ghost or Peeves. Especially not Peeves – it’d be round the school by breakfast. He took a deep breath.

“I’m gay.”

It was a strange feeling – while his stomach was knotted with nerves at what Harry’s response would be, it was also something of a relief to admit it to someone other than himself. Harry’s head jerked up again and he blinked at John, amazed.

“Blimey,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“I’m sorry,” John blurted out. “It’s just I’ve been wanting to tell someone for ages but didn’t know who and you were just there and I knew you wouldn’t laugh well I hoped you wouldn’t and it’s not like a fancy you or anything – well, just a bit – but no! That’s not the point! The point is I. . . um. . .” he ran out of gas and just collapsed against the plump back of the settee, his eye fixed on a softly burning coal that had rolled loose of the dwindling fire.

“It’s fine, John,” Harry said, amusement in his voice but John could tell it was more at his rambling than what he’d just confessed.

“Is it?” John asked, desperation lacing his voice.

“Of course,” Harry said. “I mean, face it – there are far worse things you could be. The heir of Slytherin, for one,” he added, with a trace of bitterness.

John wanted to reach over and pat Harry’s hand as a gesture of solidarity, but after what he’d just shared with him he worried he might see it as a come-on or something.

“It’ll blow over,” he said.

“There weren’t any attacks over Christmas,” Harry said. “If there’s one now people will think it’s me for sure.”

“Maybe there won’t be any more,” John said, with more hope than confidence that his words were true.

“Yeah,” Harry said with the ghost of a smile. “Maybe the monster’s settling down to snooze for another fifty years.”

“Let’s hope so,” John said with an awkward smile. He really did hope so, more than he would probably admit. He didn’t want anyone – especially Sherlock – to know just how scared the whole situation really made him feel. True, no-one had been killed yet, but what if was the next? Or Molly? John shook his head to rid it of these thoughts, and tried to concentrate on completing his essay. Professor Flitwick would probably make himself quite disagreeable if it wasn’t finished by tomorrow.

It was nearing one-twenty when John finally dotted the last ‘i’ and signed his name at the top of the parchment.

“You off to bed?” Harry asked. John nodded and Harry started collecting his notes. “Hold on a moment, I’ll come with you.”  
John bit his lip to prevent himself making some comment at Harry’s choice of words, and tried to distract himself from the thought of sharing a bed with Harry Potter by gathering up his things. Then he started imagining sharing a bed with Sherlock but he’d have had to smash his head on the mantelpiece to distract his mind from that thought.

“John?” Harry asked as he began to ascend the steps to the boys’ dormitory. “D’you really fancy me? Just a little bit?”

John went scarlet to the roots of his blond hair.

“U-uhh,” he swallowed. He’d forgotten he’d blurted that out in his rambling confession. “Bit. Just a bit. Nothing to worry about.”

“Right,” Harry said, with a smile that John could only describe as ever so slightly self-satisfied as he started back up the stairs. “Cool.”

 

Under normal circumstances, John would never have thought he’d find himself think of Lockhart as more of a foppish git than he already did, but that was before he walked into the Great Hall on February 14th. The walls were adorned with giant, garish pink flowers and there was confetti falling from the ceiling, which was reflecting a bright blue sky. Lockhart was standing in shocking pink robes (looking every inch like a giant flower himself), waving for silence among the students, whose facial expressions varied from mildly bemused to thoroughly disgusted. Indeed, most of the Slytherin table, and Professor Snape on the teacher’s bench, looked as though they’d each been forced to drink a gallon of troll saliva. John sought out Sherlock at the Gryffindor table – his presence there had become almost second-nature to the others, and nobody paid him much mind anymore – and sat down beside him. Sherlock’s own expression was one of the utmost distaste and, John was rather amused to see, minor terror.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lockhart called above the mutinous grumblings and excitable giggling that peppered the hall.

“What’s this all for?” John asked, picking pieces of confetti out of his porridge. 

“‘Morale booster’,” Sherlock said, picking up his fork and spearing a sausage on the end of it. He was moving in a very rigid fashion, like the pieces of pink and white paper fluttering onto his shoulders were venomous spiders. “That’s what he called it.”

“Morale booster for who?” John snorted, spooning a large dollop of oats into his mouth and trying to ignore Lockhart’s idiotic ramblings from the staff table. He saw several dwarfs march into the room, adorned in wings and bearing harps like weapons, what Lockhart dubbed as his “card-carrying cupids!”.

“Certainly not them,” Dean Thomas, sitting opposite them, smirked, nodding up at the teacher’s table. Professor McGonagall looked thoroughly displeased and Snape was continuing to do a good impression of a particularly ugly statue, his upper lip twitching in annoyance.

“It’s not so bad,” Molly said from a couple seats down the table. She was rather pink in the face and kept glancing at Sherlock. At this moment, John doubted if seven naked supermodels came prancing into the room, Sherlock would have shown the slightest interest.

“It’s repulsive,” Sherlock said, with such ferocity that the two first-year girls next to him recoiled slightly.

“Yeah, alright, Sherlock,” John said, patting his friend on the shoulder. “It’s not like it’s the Third Reich or anything.”

“Whatever that is,” Sherlock said. 

Sherlock’s mood did not improve throughout the day, though that was probably on account of the dwarfs that seemed to dog him between each and every class, even go so far as to burst into Charms and start serenading him in front of everything. His obvious desire to curse the dwarf into an unrecognisable lump was only marred by Professor Flitwick demanding the dwarf leave at once, as he was disrupting the lesson.

“That’s it,” Sherlock said, reaching inside his robes for his wand as a fifth dwarf approached him on the way to lunch.

“Hold it, hold it,” John said, grabbing hold of his arm and steering him quickly into an empty classroom just off the corridor. 

“What—?” Sherlock began, but stopped as the dwarfs stomped inside with them and John firmly shut the door.

“Get on with it,” he sighed to the dwarf, who twanged his harp menacingly.

Once the dwarf had finished singing, Sherlock and John rejoined the throng of people heading towards the Great Hall.

“If it’s gonna happen,” John said to Sherlock, “at least no-one saw that one.”

“I swear they’re targeting me or something,” Sherlock said. “Reckon one of the Slytherins set it up? I’d bet it was Moriarty, the villainous little—”

“Sherlock,” John sighed as they sat down, John helping himself to chilli con carne and rice. He could see Filch still sulkily sweeping up the remnants of the morning’s confetti shower. “It’s not the Slytherins. It’s just girls who’ve got a thing for you.” Molly probably amongst them, he thought.

“But it’s pointless,” Sherlock said. “Why can’t they just say what they want to to my face, then I can turn them down properly?”

John couldn’t help grinning. “Girls don’t work like that,” he said. “That’s what Valentine’s Day’s about, you know? Sending a secret valentine to the person you like.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered, spooning up a mouthful of mushroom soup. “Love is such a pointless disadvantage. Or any of its minor variants.”

John felt his appetite rapidly fade, to be replaced by what felt like a rock in the pit of his stomach.

“You really think so?” he asked, trying to keep his voice normal.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “It gets in the way of more important things.”

“Like what?”

“Intelligence,” Sherlock said, tapping the side of his head with one finger. “Deduction.”

There was a brief moment of silence, in which John absentmindedly pushed his food from one side of the plate to the other.

“It’s not bad for everyone,” he said quietly after a few minutes.

“Well, if you’ve got the mental vacancy to accommodate it,” Sherlock shrugged. “Like most of the girls here, it seems.”

John started to feel angry. Sherlock’s blatant disregard for love went against everything he’d ever felt and known. To talk about love or even just liking someone like it was nothing more than an inconvenience, or a disability to be overcome. That moment they’d shared under the mistletoe at Christmas – it had really meant absolutely nothing to him. He was just acting according to tradition, not because he’d actually felt anything. Not even an ounce of anything resembling an emotion. It sometimes seemed like Sherlock knew nothing except anger, secrecy and the occasional burst of victory. Everything was just a challenge to conquer, a puzzle to solve. He was cold, all trace of that joyful boy he’d seen at Christmas gone, overshadowed by this stupid holiday, manipulated by Lockhart to make a mockery of everything love really was – what John really felt towards him. Why couldn’t he have fallen for someone normal? This solidified any question John may have had regarding Sherlock’s reaction if he ever confessed his feelings – cool, calm, plain and simple shoot-down. Right out of the sky. Well, John wasn’t going to be made a fool of. As long as he lived, Sherlock Holmes would never know John’s true feelings for him. Ever. 

 

Once the hideous charade of Valentine’s Day was over, term started to flit by fairly quickly. Before they knew it, it was Easter, and the second-years were obliged to decide which topics they would be taking upon going up to year three in their magical education. Sherlock didn’t take much time in signing up for Arithmancy and the Study of Ancient Runes. Being as smart as he was, the teachers were a little surprised he chose only two subjects, but John knew better. From what he’d heard, Hermione (who was long-since returned from the Hospital Wing, de-furred and tailless) had signed up for every subject available, but Sherlock wasn’t that dedicated. He’d use every ounce of his extensive knowledge on a topic that interested him, or he felt was worth his time and brainpower, but if he deemed a subject superfluous (like Astronomy, for example), he’d not waste a single inch of mind-space on it. He laughed openly at John’s deliberation on the subject of Divination, saying he may as well take a pursue a career in professional Make-Believe.

It took John longer to decide on his subjects. Arithmancy sounded horrifically difficult, and he’d never been much good as foreign languages, so Ancient Runes was out. He’d always considered fortune-telling to be a load of tosh, so even without Sherlock’s snide comments he wasn’t keen on that. In the end, he settled on Care of Magical Creatures and Muggle Studies, on the logic that animals were cool and he knew pretty much everything about Muggles anyway, having lived as one for the first eleven years of his life, and so would at least be good at one subject. He overheard Ron saying he’d give up Defence if he could, since it was about as much good as a wet sock in winter the way Lockhart taught it, and John was inclined to agree. Sherlock had said there was a rumour going around that the job was jinxed, as no teacher had lasted more than a year in the position, so John was holding out hope that the trend would continue with Lockhart’s reign.

“Is it possible to club someone to death with a textbook and make it look like an accident?” John asked Sherlock after a particularly pointless Defence lesson, where Lockhart had bullied Harry into acting as a yeti he’d supposedly defeated in the Alps.

“I’d speak out at your trial,” Sherlock assured him.

The whole school was starting to buzz with tentative excitement at the Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff Quidditch match fast approaching. Considering everything that had happened that year, a good game would surely prove more of a morale booster than any stupid celebration Lockhart could inflict upon them. Oliver Wood was drilling the team members in practice pretty much every day, but Harry said he was starting to feel more hopeful about the match than he had been before. The weather was better, and Hufflepuff weren’t exactly the most formidable of opponents.

In the days following Valentine’s Day, there had been a little static between John and Sherlock, but thankfully the latter merely presumed John to be annoyed at his Scrooge-ish attitude towards love, rather than any underlying feelings he might have. They’d made up relatively quickly, and John’s resolve to cure himself of his fruitless feelings for Sherlock was stronger than ever. Whenever any thought of the kind arose, he pushed it right to the back of his mind and thought about something – anything – else. Okay, so it might now have been the most healthy exercise, but it was better than the alternative.

He’d been spending more time with Molly too. Judging by some small things she said, he had a tiny suspicion she knew exactly what was wrong with him – and what had sparked his annoyance with Sherlock – but if she did she didn’t say so outright, and John was thankful. She’d chosen the same third-year subjects that he had, which gladdened him – at least he’d have someone to talk to. She was especially looking forward to Care of Magical Creatures, under the hope that they’d be working with unicorns as part of the curriculum. John was rather interested in the idea of dragons, though he doubted they’d get to handle a real one in class, considering they were far too big and dangerous to be poked and studied by a group of thirteen year olds.

The day of the Quidditch match dawned bright and breezy, and the team was looking in relatively high spirits as they breakfasted in the Great Hall.

“Good luck, Harry,” John and Molly said as they passed, and Harry gave them a grateful, if slightly distracted, grin.

“Great conditions,” John said cheerily as they made their way to the stadium. They were just about to start climbing the steps for the top seats, when Molly stopped.

“Oh no,” she said, “I left my flag on the breakfast table.”

“Better hurry up!” John called after her as she hurried off back to the castle. “We’ll be on the top level!”

“Why does she need a flag?” Sherlock asked as they ascended the stairs.

“To support Gryffindor,” John explained. “House pride, you know?”

“Not really,” Sherlock said. Having entirely forgotten that he’d actually enjoyed the last game, he was in a sullen mood after John had forced him to watch this match.

“Yeah, well you’re not exactly a steadfast Ravenclaw,” John snorted as they sidled along the row to some empty seats. John placed his scarf on the seat beside him for when Molly arrived. “Exactly how much time have you spent in your Common Room this year? Or on your House table?”

“Okay, fine,” Sherlock said with a small smile. On the pitch, Madam Hooch had just release the balls, and John saw Harry mouth his broom, ready to take-off. Then, he saw Professor McGonagall marching onto the turf, holding a large purple megaphone.

“This match has been cancelled.”

There was an outcry of disappointment from the stadium and Oliver Wood was protesting furiously. Professor McGonagall ignored him and continued, “All students are to make their way back to the House Common Rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give them further information. As quickly as you can, please.”

The people around John were grumbling and resignedly shifting down the lines to the exits, while John’s heart felt like it had just dropped into his shoes. The only explanation for this could be that there had been another attack – and Molly still hadn’t returned. He scrambled as quickly as he could down the row, not caring who he pushed aside or that Sherlock was calling his name.

Please, please let her be okay, he begged to no-one in particular. He reached the bottom of the staircase just in time to see McGonagall leading Harry and Ron away from the crowd back to the castle. Hermione was not with them.

“Professor!” he called after her, and she paused, turning to look at him. “Professor!” he gasped when he’d caught up to them. “Molly! Please, Molly Hooper – is she—?”

Professor McGonagall gave him an uncharacteristically pitying look, and suggested he come with her, Harry and Ron to the Hospital Wing.

Oh no, was all John could think, his mind turning numb as they climbed the staircase to the hospital.

“This will be a bit of a shock,” said Professor McGonagall gently. “There’s been an attack,” she looked at each of them in turn. “Another triple attack.”

She pushed the door open and the four of them walked down the long, white-tiled aisle, to where three statuesque girls were lying on beds. One was a Ravenclaw with curly hair John didn’t know, one was Hermione Granger (Ron gave a despairing groan) and the third was—

Molly’s face was fixed in an expression of shock and horror, her long brown hair splayed out over the pillow, her Gryffindor flag still clutched in her rigidly closed fingers. John’s stomach plummeted. He’d have never thought that she would become a victim of the monster – or that the heir of Slytherin would lash out in such an excessive manner. Three in one go? It was just. . . unfair. He reached out and closed his hand around Molly’s clenched fist. She felt like a mannequin – hard and cold. Then he felt a set of reassuring fingers squeeze his shoulder and turned his head to see Sherlock’s expressive eyes staring down at him. He looked sadly at Molly’s comatose form, and John thought his heart might burst and sadness and love – both battling for primary position.

“I will escort you back to Gryffindor Tower,” said Professor McGonagall. She didn’t seem to object to Sherlock accompanying them. “I need to address the students in any case.”

 

Now that all students were forbidden to leave their Houses after six o’clock, and all lesson transitions were being monitors by teachers, it had grown rather difficult for John and Sherlock to spend time together. Professor McGonagall said that, in light of the security measures they were having to take, it would be best if Sherlock remained in his appointed Common Room. John suspected that Sherlock enjoyed this new arrangement as much as he did. Now they only saw each other in the lessons their Houses shared, and at mealtimes. There was no reason to prevent Sherlock was joining the Gryffindor table there, so at least that didn’t change. John felt miserable at the thought of poor Molly lying there in the Hospital Wing, but all students had been forbidden from visiting the victims in case the heir of Slytherin wanted to finish them off. This didn’t just frustrate John – Harry and Ron were also unable to see Hermione. 

Then Dumbledore was gone.

Professor McGonagall, as Deputy Headmistress, had taken up his place as runner of the school, but the fear that had settled on the students had morphed into real panic. Most people were convinced that now Dumbledore was gone, the attacks would just increase. Draco Malfoy, however, and another choice group of Slytherins (including Crabbe, Goyle and Moriarty), seemed thoroughly satisfied by Dumbledore’s dismissal, which solidified the rumours flying around that Malfoy’s father was the one who had eventually given the Headmaster the boot. Every time he saw Malfoy’s smug face, John was struck by a boiling desire to smash it very hard with the nearest heavy object to hand – be it textbook, suit of armour or passing first-year.

The icing on the sodding cake was that Lockhart seemed wholeheartedly convinced that all danger was now passed, Hagrid having now been placed under arrest by the Minister for Magic himself. John heard on the grapevine that it had something to do with Hagrid’s past record, and the reason he was expelled in his third year at Hogwarts. Most days, both Harry and Ron (and pretty much every other male member of Gryffindor tower) looked like nothing would cause them more pleasure than for Lockhart to befall some accident that would ensure the one-year Defence jinx lived up to its reputation.

The one upside in the whole affair was that nobody was suspected Harry as the heir of Slytherin anymore. It sickened John to think that it had taken one of Harry’s best friend being attacked to convince everyone of this, but it was still good to see Ernie Macmillan admitting his ignorance in Herbology one day.

“You don’t think it’s Hagrid, do you?” John asked Sherlock one afternoon in Charms. 

“No,” Sherlock said. “Whoever’s doing this would have to be cruel and calculating. Hagrid couldn’t harm a fly. Plus I don’t see him as a Muggle-born hater – Granger’s been visiting him with Potter and Weasley since we first got here. No, the Minister’s just taken him because I wants to be seen doing something in response to the attacks. His record is against him but I looked into that case when he was expelled – there was no viable evidence that the monster he was hiding ever killed anyone. From what the reports say it was an acromantula he was hiding, but there weren’t any marks found on the girl who died. Have you seen an acromantula?”

“No.”

“Well, they’re massive spiders with huge great fangs. Fangs at least leave puncture marks.”

John shuddered at the thought. “So how did the girl die?”

“All the report said was that she was unmarked, with a look of fear on her. . . her. . .”

John looked up at Sherlock. He was staring straight ahead of him, brow furrowed and mouth open slightly. John knew that look. Sherlock had just brushed a fragment of knowledge with his fingertips and was desperately trying to reclaim it. After a moment he banged his fist on the table and John knew it had escaped him.

The layer of terror that had descended upon the students reached a peak not two days later. The two boys were being escorting at the head of a large group by Percy Weasley to the Great Hall for lunch, when a resonating voice echoed through the passage: “All students return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please.”

The word that Ginny Weasley had been snatched by the monster and taken into the Chamber of Secret itself was probably the worst announced in the school since Voldemort’s hey-day, John reckoned. Professor McGonagall’s face was graver than John had ever seen her, and there was now absolutely no doubt that the school would close. John felt hollow inside. The thought of returning to the Muggle word, now that he’d known the magic one, was difficult to comprehend. No more feasts, no more Quidditch games, and he wouldn’t see Sherlock every day. That hit him hardest.

At some point in the evening, he vaguely registered Harry and Ron leaving the Common Room. Everyone else was too miserable to notice or protest against their departure, and Percy had shut himself away in his dormitory, unable to reprimand them. The Common Room slowly emptied, until John, too wired to sleep, was the only one left. It was then that he felt someone lay a hand on his shoulder and he almost shrieked in surprised.

“Shhh, it’s me!” Sherlock agitated voice said, and suddenly appeared as though out of thin air.

“Sh-Sherlock!” John gasped. “What—? How did—?”

“Disillusionment Charm,” Sherlock explained, dropping down on the settee beside John. “I’ve been teaching myself how to do them. I slipped in when Potter and Weasley left.”

He was speaking in that tone of voice John new meant he’d finally solved some problem.

“I know what the monster is.”

“What?” John gaped. “What is it?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “A basilisk.”

“A what?”

“A basilisk, John. Don’t you see? It’s so simple. I should have thought of it sooner but there was this block in my brain. It happens sometimes but this one was driving me mad. I was flipping through Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and it just leaped out at me.”

“Thankfully not literally.”

“A basilisk is the King of Serpents. It kills people by looking them in the eye.”

“God.”

“Yes. It all makes sense, don’t you see? The reason nobody died this time is because the basilisk’s gaze has always been diluted by one way or another.” He started to count off on his fingers. “Filch’s cat saw its reflection in the water on the floor, the Creevey kid saw it through his camera lens, Finch-Fletchley saw it through Sir Nicholas—”

“And Nick’s a ghost so he couldn’t die twice!”

“—and Granger, Clearwater and Molly were found with a mirror next to them. Granger probably figured it out just before they were attacked – she’s smart enough to – and warned the other two to be careful when turning corridors. Clearwater looked like the type to carry a mirror around, so they were checking the next corridor and—”

“Bloody hell!”

“You know what clinches it?” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“Think of something that Harry can do that no-one else can’t – something that came to light at the Duelling Club.”

“Parseltongue!” John said with a gasp. “That’s the voice he was hearing that no-one else could!”

“Yes, John, yes!” Sherlock said, almost bouncing up and down with unbridled (if slightly inappropriate) excitement. 

“Should we go and tell McGonagall?” John asked, buzzed from Sherlock’s eagerness.

“No need,” Sherlock said. “If Hermione guessed the monster was a basilisk, I have no doubt she found a way to lead Potter and Weasley to that conclusion as well. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were on their way to the Chamber of Secrets right now – they might already be there.”

“How do they know where it is?”

“I was thinking about that while I was waiting for the room to clear,” Sherlock said. “The record says that she was found dead in a bathroom, which leads me to believe it may be that miserable ghost who lives in the girls’ bathroom on the first floor.”

“Moaning Myrtle?”

“Yeah, her,” Sherlock said. “And Potter’s not stupid. If he and Weasley haven’t come back by now, I’d bet my boots they’ve found it. You can probably only open it if you speak Parseltongue.”

“Wow!” John said, gazing up at Sherlock with naked admiration, unable to help himself. Sherlock smiled at him and leaned back against the settee, satisfied that his brains had not failed him.

Both John and Sherlock had drifted off to sleep, still on the sofa, when Professor McGonagall came into the Gryffindor Common Room, dressed in a tartan dressing gown and looking thoroughly relieved. They both jerked awake when she closed the portrait door and send John to awake the boys while she roused the girls, for there was to be a celebratory midnight feast in honour of Harry having outfought Lord Voldemort – who, like Sherlock had guessed, was the true heir of Slytherin – for the second year running. The whole school crowded into the Great Hall, where the house-elves had really outdone themselves at the last moment with savoury dishes and the most sumptuous of puddings. John was tucking into a third helping of chocolate pudding when Sherlock nudged him and gestured towards the door. Hermione was running towards Harry and Ron, arms outstretched to hug them, and behind her came Molly.

“Moll!” John grasped his friend in a firm hug and she squeezed back, her smile lighting up her face.

“Welcome back,” Sherlock said, and she beamed at him before sitting down beside John to indulge in a large slice of cherry bakewell tart.

John sat back and looked at his two friend in turn. His joy and seeing Molly back and well again was enough to keep him smiling all night, and the way Sherlock kept beaming at him – still high on his intellectual success – was enough to keep him hoping for at least a while longer. It’s impossible to ban hope completely when love’s concerned, John realised. To do so would be pretty much the same as what Sherlock claimed to do with love – shut it out and refused entry by any means. Sherlock was a strange one, it was true, but he was also human. And no matter how strong they claim to be, every human had to know what it felt like to love someone – it’s what it meant to have a heart.

No, he thought as he stared upwards into the star-lit sky, his heart soaring like a comet above them with renewed hope. He wouldn’t give up. Not now. 

Not ever.


End file.
